


Closure

by illegible



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Addressing the Dalish shitstorm, Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-05 10:11:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12187995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illegible/pseuds/illegible
Summary: After the events of Trespasser, Inquisitor Lavellan is finally sent back to his clan. After living so long among humans and learning the truth about his heritage, the return carries with it countless uncertainties. At least he isn't alone.





	1. Chapter 1

Inquisitor Mahanon Lavellan has become the Right Hand of Divine Victoria, what remains of his organization Cassandra’s personal guard even as she leads the Seekers. Leliana is now his opposite, her Left Hand providing where he lacks. “A little ironic,” he’d said, “don’t you think?”

Leliana hadn’t smiled, but then again it hadn’t been the best taste.

Part of him expected to be bound in Orlais indefinitely, kneeling before the Sunburst Throne. Cassandra would not have it.

“I will send for you,” she’d said, a golden figure in the arched halls of the Chantry. She’s taken his advice on the armor. It suits her. “Go to Wycome for now.”

He’d started, lifted his head. The light that filtered through stained glass turned a white room many colors. He comes out red. “Wycome?”

The Divine smiled, and for all her hard edges it was a kind smile. “Yes, my friend. Put your fears to rest. Be with your people. See if they have answers for you.”

Lavellan hadn’t been able to move, to answer, for several moments. “Thank you,” he said slowly, “Most Holy.”

She is as correct as she is merciful. Even so, through the daze that finds him packing he knows on some level this is the subject of his dreams, his nightmares. If he focuses overmuch it will consume him.

***

He asks Harding to come.

“Sir?” she says, stunned into formality. She hasn’t been to Val Royeaux before, traded her usual attire for a velvet jacket and breeches. It is, without a doubt, the most professional thing she could have picked.

Lavellan would have clasped his hands together behind his back if he could. As is, what remains closes over empty air to make a fist. There is no relief.

“It’s an order from the Divine. For me, technically,” he explains. Nothing comes out right. He looks just past the dwarf’s shoulder to avoid meeting her eyes. “She thinks it’s in my best interests. If you’re willing, I’d like to bring you along.”

He can feel her frowning at him, turning the situation over in her head. She has very little context for this. It doesn’t make him feel less exposed.

“…Are you asking me to meet your clan?” She asks, as if she can’t believe the words coming out of her mouth.

He presses his lips together tightly, forming a line. “Partly,” he replies at length. Past the shoulder isn’t good enough. He studies a floor tile instead. Marble. “Yes.” 

He breathes, deliberately. It helps a little.

“To be honest, there’s a lot I haven’t told them yet. I’m not sure how it will go.” Lavellan risks a glance. Harding hasn’t stopped frowning at him, though she’s gone quizzical. He feels like an idiot.

“I could use a friendly face,” he explains at last, “that’s all.”

“I can do friendly,” she replies, and her expression twists into a tentative smile. More familiar. “There anything else I should prepare for, bossman?”

He laughs at that, and some of the tension melts out of his shoulders, down his spine. “Possibly,” he says, “we always face the possibility of apocalyptic cults or undead hordes surprising us.”

Harding makes a face, teeth flashing in amusement. “So small stuff, then.”

And the Inquisitor nods. “Very small. Practically non-existent.”

In the end it’s a non-issue. She’s happy to join him.

***

They sail for the Free Marches on a ship he considers more ornate than strictly necessary. Lavellan has taken to wearing cotton and lambswool again, although his affection for volcanic aurum and great bear hide stops him from forsaking finery altogether. He doesn’t stand out much unmarked, regardless.

Giving up daggers was harder than he thought it would be. His weapons were custom made with dragonbone and runes, dwarven design. _Din’an_ , the corrupter. _Enansal_ , for cleansing. He’s left the former to the Chantry for posterity. The latter, Cole agreed to hold onto.

A rapier rests at his hip now. It still feels foreign despite months of practice with Josephine’s betrothed. Lord Otranto claims that they are making progress but Lavellan can’t help being acutely aware of his own inexperience. 

Between the two of them, he suspects Harding is better equipped.

“I’ll try to keep you from picking too many fights with avaar reavers,” she said when he brought it up, “don’t worry.” She’d been unbuttoning his shirt at the time, throat to collarbone. Smiling. They were in his cabin and it had been evening. The crew laughed loudly, distantly, about something on deck. Harding seemed to glow under the candlelight, cast warm and flickering between wooden walls and his notes. Her hair probably streamed like honey, when she let it. Lavellan found himself stuck silent, waiting to see what she would do next. 

In the end she’d only kissed his forehead, left him to finish alone.

It’s midday, now. The sky is thick with clouds but not heavy enough to rain. Lavellan keeps what remains of his left arm hidden in the folds of a short cloak, scans the endless and empty water for change.

“Busy?” comes a voice behind him. Mahanon turns, finds Harding as she strides toward him.

“Absolutely swamped,” he replies, grinning despite himself. She mirrors the expression, finds his side and props her elbows on the bulwark. “I don’t know how I’ll manage.”

“But you will,” she says cheerfully before meeting his face. “Anything interesting?”

He hesitates, then. Glances to the water before fixing his attention. “I missed the sea,” he admits carefully. “Some of my favorite memories before the Inquisition were when we… when I was near the Amaranthine Ocean.”

“Oh, so you _did_ like the Storm Coast,” she says, delighted at her discovery. Then she pauses. “What do you mean, ‘I’?”

He exhales, almost a laugh. “You’ve spent too much time with Leliana, Lace.” Then, before she can protest, he continues, “You’re right though. My clan was with me.”

“Oh,” she says, ruffled. For a few moments they remain in companionable silence. He can feel the warmth radiating off her arm, her shoulder. There are strands of hair teasing loose, floating around her face like a halo. “You’re thinking about them?”

“I am,” he says, simply. Then, “Something you told me a while ago, too. In the Frostback Basin I think.”

“Oh?”

She really is very pretty. He shuts his eyes. “We’ve both changed too much. You said you wouldn’t be able to go back to your old life. Wouldn’t want to.”

“You make it sound like I hated herding sheep,” she says, but there is humor in her voice.

He smiles, but cannot bring himself to look. “Well, you can’t be all sunshine Scout.”

“Can so.”

“Hah.” He shifts his weight, accidentally bumps her hip. There is a beat, but neither of them comments. "...I'm afraid I'm not like that.”

He wishes she would say something, call him “sunshine” in revenge, give him an excuse to avoid a real answer. Instead, she waits.

“I’m an idiot,” he says slowly, “and you’re right. We can’t go back. This is the wrong thing to do. Or it could be that I’m a coward.”

“Mahanon,” she murmurs, under her breath, “what is this about?”

It’s too late to stop and she’s too clever to hide from. “I’ve become something,” says the Inquisitor softly, “something that doesn’t fit. There isn’t anything left that I believe in. The Inquisition is full of spies. Solas is trying to end Thedas. The Creators betrayed everything they were supposed to be. My face… all Dalish bear their legacy. But I can’t-” his voice breaks. He stops, struggles to find composure. Harding doesn’t interrupt. “I can’t believe in the Maker. Maybe it’s because I’m meant to, but I can’t. And my _fucking_ hand is gone.” 

He couldn’t stand to see her face now, doesn’t want to find her disappointed or hurt because of him. But he doesn’t move away when her hand slips around his waist, and he doesn’t resist when she pulls him close.

“If I was a different kind of dwarf,” she says gently, more gently than he's ever heard her, “I might ask how you feel about our mother and protector the Stone.”

He chuckles briefly, damply. Her arm tightens around him and he finds himself unspeakably grateful. “It’ll be fine, Lavellan,” she says, “there’s time. Just don’t beat yourself up about it though, alright?”

He giggles, barely hitting the edge of hysteria, and retorts, “Iron Bull and his stick might disagree with you.”

Harding scoffs. “Please, don’t tell me you’ve decided to go qunari now.”

“It’s viddathari,” he says, snobbish, “actually.” The laugh when she smacks him on the shoulder is finally sincere. “Joking, joking!”

“Maker!” she says, and when he finally looks again Harding seems more than a little relieved herself. “I mean it though. No more calling yourself ‘idiot’ or ‘coward’ or any of that. It makes us little people who haven’t saved the world seem pretty pathetic by comparison.”

“You saved it,” retorts Lavellan, “at least as much as I did.”

“Don’t give me that,” says Harding, “you know better than anyone that without you and your mark we wouldn’t have closed the rifts or defeated Corypheus. I _helped_ , but if it wasn’t for you none of this would have worked.” She pauses. “Shit, didn’t you see that future where we lost too?”

“…you know, that’s a fair point.”

“Andraste’s great blistered ass, it is.” The smile Harding flashes is wide at first, quickly shrinks to something more subdued. “So yeah. Worrying, that just means you’re still a person like the rest of us. It’s heavy stuff. I wish I had a better answer, but it is a mess. There’s no reason to kick yourself over it too.”

“Not even if I really _want_ to kick myself?” asks Lavellan.

“Nope,” says Harding. “No kicking.”

He puts his good arm around her and squeezes. Neither of them speaks for some time.

Eventually, he says, “I was good at sailing. Sometimes I brought home fish, crabs, shrimp. People keep assuming we Dalish only live near forests. Sort of misses the point with being nomads.”

“Yeah?” says Harding. When he nods, she tilts her head sideways into his chest. “What’s the biggest thing you ever caught?”

“A ray,” he says, “I think. It must have been over six meters wingtip to wingtip. Had to fight most of the day to bring it in. The thing actually dragged me a few miles off course.”

“Damn,” she replies. Then, “Did you eat it?”

“The whole clan did,” says Lavellan. “It tasted like scallops, if you’ve had them.”

“Not chicken?”

He sighs. Smiles. “Chicken of the sea, maybe. You’ll have to try it sometime, tell me what you think”

A fog rolls in. They stand together, watching nothing, listening to the rhythm of waves and each other’s voices.

It is miserable weather. Neither of them really minds.


	2. Chapter 2

An old story goes that Elgar’nan threw the sun into the sea for scorching Thedas. It was a sin that belonged to them both.

Lavellan once asked his keeper why the land was struck to begin with, what preserved it afterward. Istimaethoriel smiled (he was quite young then) and told him he was asking the wrong questions. Their stories carry a more than literal weight. He thought about that for some time and decided she was right. Still, his questions stood.

Perhaps it’s fear of retribution that saves them. Perhaps Mythal offered more wisdom than they knew.

Perhaps the world was something ugly and the sun couldn’t bear to see it any longer.

Lavellan is drowning, his body consumed by the Fade blazing green. Around him the ocean boils even as it drives him deeper. He shines as he sinks, the air dwindling in his lungs stopping prayer. 

It is not Elgar’nan who stands over him. He knows those silhouettes, knows exactly whose world he’s destroyed.

Mythal won’t save him. He deserves this.

He burns from the inside, desperate to escape his skin and unable to hold back any longer. Lavellan welcomes the flood into his body and knows no more.

***

The Inquisitor wakes in a cold sweat, moonlight spilling across his bed, swaying with the ship. Each breath drags like a blade, harsh and stuttered.

Tangled in sheets he staggers like a man possessed, finds the door, the deck, the edge ending in black water. It waits for him. He keeps it waiting but doubles over the side. Heaving, Lavellan’s eyes stream—empty of direction.

“Please,” he gasps, begging the godless night, “please tell me what to do.”

There is no answer.

***

Gulls scream over Wycome. A fishing city purged of red lyrium, wine flows back into its ports from Antiva and crowds throng its streets. White towers and dusty homes shine by morning as merchants set up their wares. Today, the docks are packed with gawkers hoping to greet the Herald whose clan rules their streets.

Lavellan is not the first to step off the ship, but he does exit before Harding. He knows what he should do now. Smile. Wave his good hand. Act like somebody familiar. Be a person but only so much.

There is a tremor in his legs that almost stops him. It doesn’t. He keeps his gait and his gaze steady, his expression blank. This is enough.

“Mahanon!”

Junlen. His brother has taken to tying his hair back, wears a gleaming veridium set of armor. Not Dalish make. He’s bigger than Lavellan remembers, only some of it muscle. Settling agrees with him.

The Inquisitor smiles, weakly, to return what he’s been given. A city elf whose name might be Zathrahel stands reserved with a human woman. Eloise. Both members of Wycome’s new council. Lavellan barely gets to be relieved by Istimaethoriel’s absence before his brother has him trapped in an embrace.

“You stopped writing,” says Junlen cheerfully, “and you look like a corpse. We heard about your arm.” His expression doesn’t slip as he says it, and in the pit of the Inquisitor’s stomach something writhes. They’re both playing the same game now. “Are you well, _lethallin?_ ”

He can be better at this. He’s had practice. Lavellan’s smile grows, and he claps his brother on the back. “I’ve been spoiled,” he says, “on Orlesian cuisine. The crew warned me it was a risk to try our store with only a week left. I couldn’t stand another eel for dinner. Not my best decision.” He pauses, meets his brother’s eye. “I should have written.”

“You’re forgiven,” says Junlen, not unkindly, “although… _ma harel lasa_.”

Lavellan stills, finds himself unable to answer.

The older elf inclines his head. “Truly? Mahanon, I’ve known you all your life. Is it so bad?” There are no words. The crowd is deafening, incoherent, ecstatic. Junlen takes his shoulders and shakes him gently.

It’s enough, and Lavellan blinks. “ _Ir abelas,_ ” he says, as if apologizing for a small distraction, “ _ma halani._ ”

Junlen laughs. “Relax, you’re home! Here,” he takes his brother’s elbow, “let me show you to the mounts.”

“Wait,” he says. The warrior stops, thick eyebrows knitting. Of its own accord Lavellan’s mouth drifts up at the edges. “I do actually have company. Scout Harding…”

“Yes, your _worship_?” says the dwarf in question. She’s standing with a knot of sailors, beaming only a little ironically.

The Inquisitor’s shoulder’s drop like a string has been cut, and he exhales gratefully as she approaches. “Lace, this is my brother. Junlen of Clan Lavellan, Dalish guard and officer of Wycome. Junlen, Harding is one of our most trusted agents. She’s a dear friend.”

More teeth. What sounds like the start of a laugh. “ _Durgen’len ma enaste?_ ” asks Junlen, “ _Melana vhenan?_ ”

“Don’t,” he says, wiping his face with a smile. “It’s true. She deserves every honor.”

There is a hand on his back. Harding’s. “He exaggerates,” she says, “most honors will do just fine.”

Junlen only laughs louder, then bows in an overly elaborate gesture. It might be half-sincere.

Harding doesn’t let go until he’s found his hart. He wonders how fluent Leliana’s favorite is in elvish.

***

There is a house prepared this time. He thought he would return to his parents’ aravel. Pailan and Nenni are traditionalists, uncomfortable at the prospect of anchoring themselves down so completely as their sons have. They keep their own place.

“It isn’t a proper way of living,” Junlen had said, shrugging, “but they like it. You should have something more worthy.” 

There was a catch in his chest, tight below the breastbone. Lavellan stayed quiet until it faded then bowed his head. “Thank you. It’s… a kind thought.”

Spires and stained glass. A fountain. A courtyard. Arches. Columns. The entire Amaranthine looking in.

No Dalish banners. No halla. No chimes or wheels.

No gods.

A pretty place, but impersonal. He doesn’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse.

He finds elf and human servants, all polite, all desperately curious about him. All carefully professional. None Dalish. There is a gap between his status and theirs that they aren’t willing to bridge. No friends of Red Jenny, here.

He and Harding are escorted to their separate quarters to unpack. She frowns at him, severely, but doesn’t protest.

His brother comes. They enter a small, cream colored room with Orlesian windows and wooden floors. Green curtains. When the help has departed and the door is shut, Junlen stops acting.

“What is it?” he asks, as the Inquisitor sits heavily on the bed. Intricately carved frame, everknit blankets picked out in silk embroidery. Halla. 

Someone made this for him.

Lavellan shakes his head, twists his fingers in his hair and curls inward. “Don’t ask me. Don’t ask me.” Junlen is beside him. There is an arm over his back.

“ _Atish’an_ ,” he says, and it sets an edge to Lavellan’s teeth. “ _Atish’an, Mahanon…”_

He babbles. Nothing of real significance, nothing whole. It’s hard to keep track. “I’m not what I was, they made me—no. I made myself. _Harellan Lavellan_. I’m so sorry. _Ir abelas. Ar banal las halamshir var vhen._ ” It sounds like someone is strangling him. Junlen’s hands dig into his side, his shoulder, keeping him still. “I've learned too much and I can’t face them at once. _Lethallin._ I need to speak with Istimaethoriel. None of this is mine. I have no right to take these things.” 

“Mahanon.” It almost hurts how tight he’s being held. At least he’s anchored. “The Keeper is unwell. Ellana is preparing to take her place.”

“Creators,” he says, and laughs far too loudly. “What a game the Dread Wolf plays.” And he keeps laughing, because Solas has no interest in games never bothered to join Wicked Grace rarely laughed barely smiled grim as Falon’Din when they last spoke when he explained why the world must end all their lives falling empty before him.

And this was not his fault.


End file.
